Mirror, Mirror
by PRlNCE
Summary: Shame plagues the soul of a man whose everything had been salvaged time and time again despite his lack of worth. Richard dares not meet with his friend through the incessant disdain the monarch carries for himself, believing that the heights his affection for Asbel Lhant has taken would only serve to prove his point that he is, indeed, utterly deplorable.


_Mirror, mirror on the wall_

_who is this man, and what does he want?_

What if you had done something so terrible, so atrocious, something which had threatened the existence of everything meaningful - and yet, you had done so with your own free will. With your own set of hands, carving a path of spent crimson, because you had wanted to. Imagine being saved from this by the people you care for the most. Forgiven. Offered another chance, a chance wasted on you. Given life, where you had taken the most. Then as you'd return to your home, intent on being worthy of this gift, the desire with which you had used to fuel the resolve of death and destruction stands in the way of being the example you'd be needed as. Fear in their eyes as you'd pass by, eliciting more, no matter how much you'd try to set things right, to place bandages on the very wound you yourself had cut in utter euphoria.

Things kept getting progressively worse, the more Richard involved himself in what he believed to be the right thing. But even without Lambda's influence, everything appeared tainted by his very touch. Every day, he had worked hard, optimistic, resolute. But his actions could never be erased, nor did it seem like there was a possibility to mend it.

Truth be told, there was a more contented man gracing the hallways of Barona's fine example of architecture, this day and every other followed by his decision to live. But while his spirit carried some mirth, it didn't completely negate what had been gathered over the course of seven years and more. Bitterness and contempt had lowered their layers over the monarch's mind and clouded it considerably. Every day he had looked out that window and taken part in foolish imaginations and what-ifs of his cherished friend standing by the front gate, he had only become further disappointed with himself. Richard had known it wouldn't happen. But growing up at that time had proven to leave him with few things to look forward to. Even imaginary things had served to bring a smile to his saddened face.

And even still, with that gentle air he had about him as he passed the maids and guardsmen in the castle, beneath was shame. It didn't appear to matter much specifically what it pointed out, it was simply everything about him. Richard took pride in many things, and so his self-loathing didn't reach every single depth imaginable, but it was there. Insisting and reminding at times when it wasn't needed, forcing the impulse to use a gloved hand to cover his own face in agony.

The fact that these feelings were incessantly prodding only made matters worse. The world was striving for peace. The threat was gone. Richard had been saved. Again. What right did he have to feel this way? Do _keep_ feeling this way? Do keep doing, thinking, implying any of these things? He was utterly disgusting.

The hallways caressed his steps with their echoes as the king of Windor kept moving, cape fluttering in accordance with his movements and his smooth, blond hair following as well. It was very well taken care of, a sign of awareness from the monarch. As was taught to him early, he also carried himself well, his back straight and feet firmly touching upon the floor with grace. But at the same time, it was something Richard was so accustomed to, it didn't cross his mind often.

Reaching his destination swiftly, Richard turned the embellished knob on the door and entered his quarters, closing it behind him as he leaned onto it and raised his head, his chest sinking as he exhaled deeply. In his absence, there was always a part of him that didn't dare to meet with Asbel again. Not particularly out of shame. Not because he in any way suspected that he wasn't yet forgiven. There were simply thoughts hindering it. He didn't deserve it. Not from him.

During all these years, as the disdain for others had grown in the depths of Richard's soul, so had his affection for the man. And it had grown to heights beyond comprehension. It wasn't so much a tale of love, as it was the only trust he had ever thought to give, a friendship fueled by the salvation of his very life, over and over in ways he'd never thought possible. It was beyond everything. His life belonged to the other, to do with as he saw fit. Would he ever understand? Would he ever understand the depths it all went to, or would he see it much in the same fashion as Richard himself, an exaggeration of ill-placed emotion, and thoughts unworthy to place in the same category as that of Asbel Lhant.

Richard's movements were almost lethargic now. Swallowing as if bracing himself, he gingerly moved a hand upwards and pulled at the cloth by his neck, tugging at it until it loosened and he was able to remove it. He simply let it fall to the floor, disregarding his usual neatness, as he closed the distance between himself and his place of sleeping. He threw himself onto the bed, his legs still hanging from the edge, soles planted into the floor. Closed his eyes. Hated himself.

Refusing to remove his gloves, Richard placed his fingers firmly onto his own chest, trailing them down his waist and hips, allowing them to come to a halt, before moving them up again as he exhaled softly and opened his eyes to greet the ceiling. A wrinkle developed between his brows, and Richard urged himself to turn his vision off once more, bringing his other hand into the illustration. It followed the same pattern, only reaching further down, as he reached for his inner thigh, gently massaging at the covered surface. The more he realized he was doing this to himself, the more disgusted he was, and so Richard made the attempt to close such comprehension off entirely. Even he wouldn't want to touch himself.

But he did. All the while keeping a steady image on the inside of his eyelids.

A gasp escaped him now, as he reached a sensitive spot. Already feeling himself twitch, he grazed the surface of his arousal with his knuckles, casting his head back at the slight sensation. He then proceeded to place his palm over the tightened fabric, moving it forward and back, trailing his thumb, index and middle finger across the sides. These actions sent an impending tremor into Richard as he was unable to stifle a moan, arching his back slightly and grinding his hips towards his own hands. He mouthed a name now in his solace, repeating it with every fissure sent into his trembling body, his boots chafing the polished floor as his hands dared to pick up the pace, rubbing firmly.

Keeping his trousers on was severely uncomfortable considering they were already quite snug, but Richard had not the bravura to do so, insisting on limiting the touch to that of his attire. Either way, it was still enough.

His voice grew impatient, helpless, as the teasing continued, ten fingers working to make him reach a state of electrocution. One hand roughly massaging, while the other made use of a light touch, driving himself mad as Richard's imagination wildly evolved into the sudden onslaught of frenzy he now experienced. Releasing one of his grasps, not able to bear the teasing any longer, Richard moved his free hand up towards his hair, running it through the blond strands and leaving his arm stretched out onto the bed as the rubbing resumed. And then, the rolling of his hips turned more frequent, back arched considerably, struggling against himself, his cries of pleasure rising from that of quiet moans and staggering violently. His body shook, his feet were rooted and his hand worked faster, faster yet.

Not even once the peak had been reached did he stop, riding it out completely through the sensational eruption of emotion, Richard's eyes rolling slightly up as his eyelids opened once more and his hips remained high in the air.

A quiver passed his system, and there he let go, falling back onto the sheets. Heavy breathing was the sound to hover in the space of his quarters until Richard finally settled down, moving his hand from his soiled trousers. Before reality would once again cuff him to his actions, he breathed that one name.

"Asbel..."

And hated himself.


End file.
